I'm sitting in a rocking chair on the balcony looking out over the Gulf, with a half-moon rising and shining on the water, listening to the surf and smelling warm salt air. The only thing missing is you, and I know that Heaven is better than anything Earth has to offer, but I can't quite imagine anything better than this. I'm drunk on the sound and smell of the surf.
We flew out of Columbus at noon, had 2 hours in Atlanta, flew to Panama City, and drove about 45 minutes. My room is on the side away from the water, but I have a very high four-poster bed and a balcony, and will sleep with the sliding glass door open and get every bit of this air that I can. I predict that I'll be up at first light. I told Irene that if she wakes up and can't find me, I'll be walking the beach.
You didn't feel what I do about open water, but you understood as well as you could. And you always saw to it that I got to see water with no visible land on the other side as often as I could. Something inside me unrolls, opens up, and flattens out when I see open water. I can't explain it any better than that. It feeds some need in me. When I'm at the water, I'm at peace. When I'm inland, I'm hungry for the coast.
Thank you for respecting and caring for that part of me. I will always come back to the sea. And someday, when I grow up, I will live in a lighthouse.
Love you to eternity,
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